


Like Real People Do

by Ericine



Category: Scarecrow and Mrs. King
Genre: Car Sex, Domestic, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Home, Oneshot, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sweet/Hot, Teenage Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5313683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ericine/pseuds/Ericine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amanda. Latin for love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Real People Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dizzy28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzy28/gifts).



> An early holiday present for a friend who got me through a pretty bad week (and head over heels into this fandom omg). This takes place in early season 4, definitely after 4.04, but the timing's not too strict.

He swears he didn't plan it. 

Amanda's gonna call him full of it later, with that look on her face that is equal amounts exasperated and sweet, with just the right amount of warmth that melts his heart. 

That _has_ _melted_ his heart, he finds himself thinking, and he expects a thought that chastises that line of thinking, but it doesn't come. There's not one thing about this that makes him feel weak or guilty, including the fact that the idea of heart melting is only at the forefront of his mind because Amanda King's in his arms, and her only response to him pushing her skirt (ever-so-slightly, bit by bit—not because he has to try to sneak this onto her but because she loves him to go slow, because everything else in her life is quick now--quick thinking, quick desperation, quick covering up—but home is somewhere that can be safe and secure, with bedtime stories and Greta Garbo movies with Dotty's mother's quilt around both their shoulders) up past her knees is to sigh in his ear.

(He does not know what he thinks of home, except that he has never before considered that home could be a _person_ and that the word itself, “home,” does not feel foreign to him anymore.)

It makes him pull her closer to him, though she's all but in his lap (and would be already, but the backseat of her station wagon hasn't been tested for their heights in this way, and they're basically still in her driveway, just parked at the curb), and kiss her hard, swallowing her sigh as she kisses him back, reckless in the way that she only is when they're completely alone. 

And they are alone, technically, but not obscured. Later, he'll counter that she started it, with a goodnight kiss that escalated when she ran her tongue along his bottom lip ( _hungry_ , she's so hungry when she touches him, but it's rarely on a weeknight in her driveway after grocery shopping) and ended with them clinging to each other, him murmuring "backseat" against her mouth (they can't break apart) and them clamoring into the backseat like a couple of teenagers with a few minutes left before curfew. 

She’s not _feeling_ alone, though, because she shifts uneasily in her seat (into his lap, he notices, because how could he not) and pulls away, breathless, pushing her hair out of her face. 

"You okay?" he asks. He takes her hand and puts it back on his shoulder, pushing her hair out of her face on his own. 

She smiles at the gesture, gracious, happy at his touch but a shake worried. "No—yes—no. Well, this is fine. You're fine. I just—well, the boys are out, but Mother—"

"If your mother were home, she would have found us already," he says, and presses his lips to her throat. 

She leans her head back and sighs that sigh again. "It hasn't been fifteen minutes."

"Ten," he replies, kissing her collarbone, and she's definitely in his lap now, nearly bare-legged with her skirt bunched around her waist, and he feels bad, because he knows that as much as this situation screams _home_ to him (beautiful word, home), half of her home is still inside that house (or so to speak), and she's merging them as fast as she can, but she likes things to go slow. 

She allows time for things to grow.

"Like I said," she says softly, pulling her skirt down around them. She kisses his forehead, then his temple, then the outer edge of his ear. He hugs her to himself (so slight and strong all at once). He loves her so much. She hugs him back, arms over the tops of his shoulders, his head against her chest. 

"No, I mean she usually comes out after ten minutes or not at all," he says, and she pulls back at that point, leaning against his knees, which is terrible and wonderful all at once when she brushes against his already tight pants. 

Amanda's not the kind of person who's ever liked pantyhose. It's one of the things she's told him offhandedly, casually, during one of their now-regular dinners. He thinks that maybe he should be more thankful for this more often, for times like now, when he can run his hands along her thighs.

"Fifteen," Amanda argues, but there's a teasing glint in her eye, and when she shifts, he knows she knows exactly where she's sitting. 

"Well, it's been about half an hour." Another shift, and he groans when he pushes back against her involuntarily. "Amanda, I'm trying to be good here."

"Not nearly good enough if you've been timing how long we've been--"

"Only because we both know that your mother comes out at a certain period of time."

Amanda smiles in spite of herself. "She does, doesn't she? I wonder why that is."

Lee grips her waist a little tighter. "I wonder about what I could do with you if we had the whole night, like we did last—"

"Lee!"

"Who’s going to hear me say that?”

Amanda's eyes dart to both windows beside them. "It just feels—they could be home any minute—and this car, you know, I'm driving the boys to school in it tomorrow, and it's just that it might feel weird if we—" She bites her lip.

Damn, she’s adorable.

"If we what?" Lee hears himself say. It's not like she's actually considering car sex with him. It feels good, her pressed against him like this ( _hot_ , he realizes, and he throbs against her), and they don't get to do this nearly as often as they'd like, but it's always somewhere far from discovery. They're so careful—they have to be.

"Thirty minutes?" whispers Amanda, sliding her hands up and down his arms, his chest. Her voice is wavering, and it makes his throat go dry.

"Thirty-five, now,” he tries not to rasp. The porch light isn't even on, hasn't been this whole time. She kisses him again, hands in his hair. "Amanda," he growls. "Tell me you want me to stop."

She kisses him, different. Softly, deliberately, in a way that makes him think of melted sugar glaze and honey. "I don't think I do," she murmurs against his mouth, then kisses his nose (this _woman_ ). “Is that alright?” She pulls his hands to her chest, and then they're both unbuttoning and kissing bare skin (it's not smart for him to get her bra off like this, but he can pull the fabric down and sideways, and when his tongue circles her nipple, she hums in a way that has his blood singing). "I miss you, Lee," she says when her hands drop to his belt, undoing it with one hand while she strokes him through the fabric with the other. "I just—"

He knows what she means. They see each other nearly every day at work (she tries to set aside one or two days where she isn't, when she's just at home with her boys and does nothing else), and he's taken, lately, to coming and doing outside chores with her when she's alone--shopping, picking up the dry cleaning--because it feels like training for something, like he wants to prove to her that he can support her in this part of her life too. 

He leans his head back, groaning as she frees him from his boxer-briefs, hooking his thumbs into the sides of her panties and, finding that she's wearing cotton today, pulling the crotch sideways to slide (really _slide_ —she's so wet and he can't see her so well in the evening darkness, but he opens his eyes to look up at her, and her lips are slightly parted, and her eyes are wide) his fingers over her. "I miss you too, Amanda," he says, and she closes her eyes, purses her lips, and does something he doesn't expect—she leans sideways (gently, so gently—she's clumsy sometimes but always manages to move with grace--that he feels like they may have been dancing) to where she's lying on the seat, one leg on the floor, with him above her. 

He thinks maybe it's going to be too much—the movement leaves his cock right up against her, and he grinds, growling, wanting to take but only when she tells him to (they haven't done this that many times, and it's still been so long for her). 

Amanda's hands are on his shoulders. She puts one hand, cool, comforting, against his cheek. He leans into it, blindly. He just wants to touch all of her, and there's maybe a part of her that knows this too, because she pulls him in closer so their foreheads are touching. "Love me, Lee," she says, and he knows what she means (he's loved her long before he knew what she felt like around him, what she sounded like when he touched her, how deeply she could kiss him and still feel like spun sugar in his arms).

Still, he doesn’t understand how she gets to make this feel so damn intimate. Here she is in the back of the car, shirt open, legs spread, and all he wants to do is pull her around him so everything is warm and beautiful.

He tries to be slow when he pushes into her (never slow enough, he thinks, because she gets this look on her face when she does it--this smile that completely undoes him), takes his non-bracing hand and flutters his fingers against her clit (light, quick, soft, the way she likes it). "Amanda."

 _(Amanda._ Latin for love.)

"Lee," she answers, quiet (always quiet when they do this, but nonetheless expressive), desperate. She rocks her hips against him, and he groans a sound that she swallows into her mouth as she kisses him as they slide together, rocking, kissing. He growls with the effort to keep it together, to wait for her to catch up (normally, he likes to tease her for hours with his fingers and his mouth, reducing her to sighs and speechlessness as he tries to give her the peace--everything--she deserves before he thinks about himself, but they're short on time, and he'll make do, because she wants to make love to him in the backseat of her car). 

She's moving now, scrambling for his brace hand to squeeze, and he knows she's close (she likes to hold his hand when she comes). She breaks away from his mouth to gasp for air and then shudders, wrapping her legs around him, shaking around his cock. 

He slows down, and she meets him with a feverish thrust. "No, keep going," she says. She's smiling wide, still holding his hand, head back (he loves her like this, so _free_ ) "Come on, come for me, Lee." 

The way she says it, the gravel characteristic of her voice punctuated by gasps, still shaking around him, is more than enough. He buries his head between her breasts and comes hard inside of her. "I love you," he says, and she wraps both arms around him, humming comfortingly.

"I love you, too," she whispers, and he can't see her in this moment, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

They know that she needs to go inside soon and that he needs to go get his car (station wagons attract less attention at the grocery store than Corvettes), but they allow themselves a small moment. 

"Thank you for this," she says, with almost a giggle. “I can’t believe I— _we_ —I just, I liked it.”

"Thank you," replies Lee. "Not everyday I get to land a hot chick in the back of a car." Amanda swats him.  "I'd rather a bed."

"Me too," agrees Amanda. She tilts his chin up so he can look at her, and he shifts off of her just a bit (if he was hurting her, she doesn't say anything). "My bed soon. I promise. A night when we’re alone.” She kisses him, then fidgets a little.

He kneels up and begins to button his shirt and pants. Amanda follows, looking around the car. "I should really let you take me grocery shopping more often," says Lee. " I could use more of this."

Amanda glares at him, then laughs. "Look at this mess." They’d thrown the groceries in the backseat, not bothering with the trunk on such a short trip. Bags now litter the front seat, where they were tossed, and the floor. "Tell you what," she says, retucking in her shirt and smoothing her hair, "since no one really seems to be home, if you help me carry these in, I'll forgive you for what you started."

"Me."

"Yes, you."

" _You_ kissed _me_."

"And you think I didn't notice you watching me put the groceries in the back seat? Or in the milk aisle? Or when I had to check the egg prices?"

Lee laughs and pulls her to him, kissing her. "I carry on groceries, and you make me a cup of coffee to get me home. I'm feeling a little spent, honestly." He catches her eye and they both grin.

He has a thought, then, that he doesn't fully understand. He files it away to think about later tonight, maybe when he's in bed needing something warm to hold onto. _Being with her is like coming home over and over again._

"Deal."


End file.
